King of Fools
by Halfwest
Summary: In which the Prince of Madness promotes one of his own, turns social constructs upsidedown, and saves the Imperial City. What, you don't believe me? He DOES...


**King of Fools**

Author's Note: You may consider that these pieces of mine concerning Sheogorath are... practice. I am aware there are lore discrepencies—or should be, I'm not brilliant enough to pretend there aren't—and if anyone spots them, do point them out. Also: All secondary characters (everyone but Sheogorath) are my own invention. Don't go looking for them in the game, they aren't there.

* * *

_Dear daddy,  
Just a short note this time to say  
that I have lost (or, it was stolen)  
the pretty pot that you and  
Jemma gave me.  
It  
is all right, really:  
ever since  
I left it sitting on the mantle, near  
where the crack in the chimney lets the wind in,  
it has never made a tea that was not bland  
and a little bit  
thick  
so that it was difficult to swallow.  
Love for-  
ever,  
L_

* * *

**I.**  
The clang and clatter echoed over the vast, ever-changing landscape with a merciless ferocity matched only by needle tips of distant crags stabbing the red-grey sky. The battle was swift, its soldiers tireless and heedless of the shifting surroundings. Yet a strange army indeed this was: all its soldiers seeming to converge upon a single central point. Flashes of light, both from their magic and from the inherent random nature of their battlefield, glinted now and then off of golden armor, green glass swords and shields, and weapons that seemed to be made of stone, or to be some metal gauzed with veins of red. Whatever their target, though invisible in the throng, it was clearly not going down easily. Frequently the gold-encased beings would fall: stagger back wounded, fly over the heads of their fellows, or simply vanish with a scream. And the ground itself was against them, and the air, from which came shapes and structures that would stand a moment in their places and then be gone again, ushered behind a curtain or hidden by a tilt of a magician's mirror. Now a wall erected itself where no wall had been, standing high and grey. Now the ground rumbled, and a pillar of pointed red pierced upwards, impaling any who stood in its way. Now a mass of black descended and devoured, now a machine rolling itself on a wheel made of scythes cut through the crowd, until smaller and smaller the group became. Yet no bodies littered the ground, no fallen arms nor stains of blood. They were absorbed back into the substance from which they had been drawn.

All through the indecisive nightmare the battle was fought. As the swarm of attackers thinned, their target became gradually clearer, and the more of the gold souls fell, the more stable the landscape became. A wall went up and stayed, and then another. The ground evened out into smoothed stone or clay. The sky was blotted out by a roof, and the structure was closed. No windows or doors did it have (yet?), but it was lit from within by what seemed to be no more solid sources than beams of brighter air casting constant, long shadows in many directions—three, four, five shadows from the feet of one opponent.

And then at last, there were only three remaining.

They stood apart, their fighting paused, a line poised for a game of monkey-in-the-middle. Two burnt-gold beings swaying slightly on their feet, and between them their master and their foe whom they had been ordered to slay. Perhaps, in their strange, simple minds, they knew they would not. If they did, they did not care.

Nor did they seem to notice that their adversary was unarmored and, apparently, unarmed. He regarded them with casual callousness: a man in high boots and a green silk vest (or was it velvet?), one hand resting lightly on a cane (plain, yet clearly of exemplary quality and taste), the other hooked neatly on his belt. There would have been just enough time in the space of that pause for an onlooker to note that although he had just apparently fought off a very large number of very strong (if predictable) foes, his clothing was as neat as if it had just been pressed, his blonde hair (worn with long bangs, shaggy at the top, trimmed shorter at the neck) might have barely settled into place from the last stroke of the comb, and not a scratch or bruise was on his body.

This impression lasted only seconds. Then, simultaneously, both golden women (for women they most _certainly_ were), charged forward with their weapons high and their shields raised. At that same moment, he responded. His hand twisted down to grip the cane along its length. A flick of the wrist tossed it upwards through the fingers, so that he wielded it from the bottom with the heavy (bronze?) knob at the top adding to the effectiveness of the make-do weapon. In slow-motion, this action would have appeared no more urgent than if he were any gentleman out for a stroll in the park, playing toss-games with his walking-stick either for his own amusement or that of a lady companion. Such was the sloe-eyed almost-boredom on his face.

As for the women-warriors, though both had launched themselves towards him at the same instant, the encumbrance of a red-black tower shield borne by one slowed her approach even over this small distance enough to make a notable difference. It was towards her that the man in the middle turned, his arm drifting in an indifferent arc to bring the cane up to a striking position. Even as he stopped for the momentary gathering of strength before the strike, the quicker attacker behind him dropped her shield arm to her side, skidded to a halt at his back, and struck. Her blade flashed, sang as it sliced through the air, yet with only inches to spare between its point and the man's unprotected spine, the ground beneath the warrior's feet grew red-hot, split apart, and swallowed her in tongues of singing flame. Purple. It smelled of violets.

Perhaps the last one knew her end was near. Perhaps she saw in her ally's termination the inevitability of her own. If it stayed her heart with fear, it did not stay her hand. She covered the last three steps in the time it took for the flare to disappear completely. As she drew back her sword, posed in beautiful fluidity with her shield supported upon a strong, lean arm, the staff with its weighted knob fell towards its impressively impenetrable cover. In another time and place, it might have bounced harmlessly off, the shield's bearer feeling next to nothing. Yet here, now, when the cane made contact, it sent from its point of impact spidery lines of cracks not only over the shield, but over the golden being's whole body. There was a crack, and then a crash as the warrior's form shattered into a thousand pieces, which fell to the ground with a noise not unlike glass, and turned into teacups as soon as they rolled to a halt.

A thousand teacups, sitting daintily on too-small saucers, all of them filled with clear chocolate-brown liquid which steamed enthusiastically into the room's shocked stillness.

A hush, swish, tap as the cane slid back upright in his hand and was returned to resting with its tip against the floor. The man surveyed the scene with a face like a king in his citadel looking out over a losing battle. With no further ado, he sat down amidst the teacups, set the cane at his side, and picked up a saucer. He held it in his lap, his elbows pressing onto his knees. In the cup was an ocean reflecting his gaze back onto himself: grey, troubled eyes that never seemed to quite see all of whatever they focused on—or perhaps it was that they saw much more than a thing's simple nature.

As he raised the rim to his lips, a piece of a wall creaked open in the approximate shape of a doorway. Into the arena rolled a group of marble-like spheres, the smallest one resembling a ball-bearing, the largest the size of an apricot. There were some twenty-five or thirty all together, some with a glassy shine (both transparent and opaque), some more like metal, still others of stone, or of compacted grass, or apparently covered in velvet or shag-rug or burlap. They trickled into the congregation of teacups, picking cautious paths through the maze of porcelain.

The gentleman watched them, then quietly spoke. "You are welcome to stay here," he invited, his voice gently welcoming. But the spheres did not pause in their voyaging. He persisted. "Please, there is room for all, and enough tea to fill a lake. Linger. Be welcome. Have a cuppa. Tell me about your in-laws. Any word on how Filippe is doing since he sliced a circle 'round his wrist and took his skin off like a glove?"

Two or three of the rolling guests appeared to slow their crusading, but only briefly. The sound of the rest of the migration pressing onwards was enough to spur them back into motion, and soon they had all passed through the warrior's scattered, aromatic remains. "Any word at all?" he called after them, but now none heeded him. At the far edge of the dishware, they regrouped, rolled a ripple through their numbers as if to make certain all were accounted for, and proceeded to relocate their mobile solar system across the floor and out through a second spontaneous doorway. As soon as they were gone, both doors swung shut and sealed themselves back into the architecture without so much as a crack where their frames had been.

So the victor was alone again with his spoils: enough cups of tea to refuel a battalion of aristocrats, and the prospect of several days of dishwashing.

He sighed, and sipped the tea, wrinkling his nose at the taste. It was salty, like blood, or like seawater. Momentarily alarmed, he looked down to be certain the substance was not red (it wasn't), and smelled it to be sure it was not fishy (its smell instead hinted subtly of just-cleaned laundry). He swirled a finger in it, licked the tip, and squinted thoughtfully. It was too hot for sea water, too thin for blood, but just right, he reckoned, for tears.

* * *

**II.**  
_Too low, too low, too low, low, low for the mountains to see me. That's what I am. Too small, too small, too small, small, small to see over the walls._ Djubai's dark skin was a decent shield against prying eyes. He had learned not long ago that people reacted badly to the sight of a man sitting alone and rocking to the rhythm of his thoughts, even if he was minding his own business and hurting no one, and tried to smile politely when he noticed anyone looking at him. But people did not seem to care about his manners. They cared that he was engaged in the rigorous business of realizing things and did not have time yet to explain it to them. Perhaps they thought he was rude, even though he took the trouble to smile at them. 

So Djubai was today on the little ledge above the hyacinth-pond-that-was-not-a-drainage-ditch, but well below the wall that kept the street-folk from falling in. It was not his favorite place—the rigid wall and narrow ledge kept him from rocking as far back as he would have liked—but today it was cool and quiet and deep in shadow, and far enough from Interruptions. That's what people became, when they were rude to him. Interruptions. Usually he did not mind putting up with one or two for the sake of a comfortable little nook with thick grass, or a spot in one of the narrow passes between buildings, but the streets were crowded today. He had been Interrupted twice before breakfast, and so decided the ledge would have to do. He liked to hop onto it from the ramp and then scoot until there was nothing under his feet but water and maybe a flower or two.

_Too dark, too dark, too dark, dark, dark to be part of the flowers. That's what I am. Too brown, too brown, too brown, brown, brown to be one of the stones._ He felt that he had been making good progress today, despite the setbacks. Being careful to keep his pace steady as a clock's pendulum, he held one recitation in his head while his eyes darted this way and that until he came to another one. And then he must say it three times in his head, once aloud, and as many more times as it takes to find a new one. As he was relating again the cycle of flowers and stones, he looked up beyond the top of the walls to the sky above .

_Too sharp, too sharp, too sharp, sharp, sharp for the rain clouds to sit on. That's what it is. To thin, too thin, too thin, thin, thin to hold up the whole sky._ It was an intriguing realization about the city walls, which people relied on so thoughtlessly to protect them against anything that might chance by with an intent to cause harm. After repeating it three times and once aloud, he decided to follow it. _Too thin, too thin, too thin, thin, thin to stand up against mountains. That's what it is. Too thin, too thin, too thin, thin, thin to protect us from trees. Too thin, too thin, too thin, thin, thin to be proof against danger. That's what it is. Too thin, too thin, too thin, thin, thin to keep out what we fear._

He would have liked, right now, to be somewhere he could rock better. He was starting to realize things that were upsetting now, and when his body could not move to keep up with his realizing, he could lose his train of thought and be left feeling confused and distressed with no way to think himself out of it. He had, on several occasions, tried to compensate for the lost motion by running to catch up with the thought that escaped, and ended up running until he made himself ill and woke up a long time later with a headache that made it very hard to keep water in his stomach when he drank. In such states of extreme thirst, he had sometimes vomited up a gallon or more of water before he could get any to stay down.

This thought was too important to risk losing. Muttering to himself to give the thoughts more substance, he slid down off of the ledge and splashed into the shallow water, wading the few steps between him and the ramp and then hurrying up. Once on the sidewalk, he began to stride. Not to walk, not to stroll, not to trot or meander or wander. He strode as if he had an important errand, and was late for his appointment. Save that he had no physical destination in mind. He just let his feet carry him whatever way his mind led.

His mind led away from the walls. All walls. The key was the storm clouds getting darker and darker over the Imperial City. That much water was very, very heavy. The walls would never be able to hold up clouds that heavy. Which meant, logically, that the walls were going to crumble.

This, Djubai sincerely felt, was something he did not care to participate in. So he was going away from the walls. Now and then, when he could feel that he had a particularly firm hold on his logic for a few seconds, he would break a little from his striding daze and call a vague warning to whomever he was passing nearest to on the street. He didn't stop to pay attention to whether they heard him or responded. He had to keep moving. So move he did. Clear across the Market District until he saw that he was approaching the walls between here and the Elven Gardens. He looked up at the sky. No, he'd never make it all the way to the Waterfront in time. But – he could get to the Palace grounds in the center of the city. The Palace was strong – stronger than the walls. It might be able to stand the weight of the storm.

He changed direction and set off again. He had almost reached the gates to the Palace grounds when he heard the first roll of thunder and stopped in his tracks.

It was close now. Maybe too close. If the storm came and he was too near to the walls, he would be crushed.

But it was not here _yet_.

He might make it. And he'd never survive if he didn't.

Djubai took a deep breath, and ran.

* * *

**III.**  
The Imperial Guard rarely assigned new soldiers to Palace duty, and when they did, it was only one or two at a time, assuring that no post or beat was ever manned by an inexperienced soldier without a higher-ranking mentor. As a result, it was rare that the Palace guards batted an eye at the occasional eccentric or looney who wandered in. The way they saw it, public property was public property to anyone who upheld the laws and did not disturb the peace; and a shelter with strong walls was a shelter with strong walls, and a man shouldn't have to be chained to a chapel when his Emperor could protect him as well as any gods. 

Thus Djubai had been able to race through the grounds and enter the Palace without incident, soaked to the bone from the rain that had poured down onto him when he was just a few steps from the doors. He came bursting inside with the thunder at his heels, only just barely managing to stop before he slid straight into the wall. He leaned over with his hands on his knees, gasping out incoherent prayers of thanks to any god who could hear him, heedless of the two guards standing directly behind him at either side of the doorway. They, for their part, managed with military wills not to shift on their feet. They allowed Djubai to catch his breath a little before one stepped forward to offer terse directions towards a bench out of their sight, which Djubai was more than happy to follow with all due speed.

The bench offered little in the way of creature comforts, but finding that it was out of the earshot of the Imperial Guard officers and situated in a lonely, empty little nook in the hallway, he threw himself into it gratefully. As he sat there dripping, the cool stone extinguishing the fire in his lungs and the panic in his belly, he bowed his head and continued his heavenly invocations, offering his service to the next god who needed a favor in exchange for having been spared the fate of a painful death by wall. Safe now and sheltered, he could even slow his rocking to almost unnoticeable, shallow swaying, and held his devotions with quiet but enthusiastic fervor even though the storm outside repeatedly hurled great claps and cracks that startled him terribly. He felt certain that no thunder could be so loud behind walls as thick and strong as the Palace's, therefore it could only be the sound of the city tumbling to pieces.

It made him quite sad, to think of losing it. It was far from the only home he'd ever known, but he had grown fond of it, grown _used_ to it. He couldn't imagine where he'd go now. But there would be time to think of that when it was all over. Live in the moment you live in, he reminded himself, or you're likely to miss important realizations.

Like the fact that he could suddenly hear footsteps.

Djubai hushed his murmured prayers and pressed his hands against his knees, closing his eyes tightly to avoid having to be Interrupted. It was probably another passer-by who had ducked inside the Palace to avoid the storm. Whoever they were, he hoped they were drier than he was, but he wished they'd hurry up. He had heard guards on patrol in the deadest parts of night meander at a quicker pace. The steps got closer, closer. Outside, Djubai heard another wall reduced to dusty rubble in the rain. So loud! He hadn't thought it would be so loud! It was the city falling, and the too-slow footsteps. He wanted to rock, to find his own beat and even out the busynoise. They didn't move together. He needed to move so he could find their middle way and make them blend. But not until the stranger passed.

He gripped his knees tighter. Surely the person would see he was involved in his own affairs and leave him alone.

The footsteps stopped.

_Move on, move on, move on, on, on, I'm a piece of the Palace. That's what I am. Don't look, don't look, don't look, look, look, I'm not worth it to see._ Djubai chanted in his head, waiting for the feet to take themselves in any direction as long as it was away from him.

One minute passed. They didn't move. Two minutes. Djubai gnawed and fretted at the inside of his cheek. Three minutes. He started to wonder if he had imagined the footsteps. Maybe it was an echo of a guard walking somewhere far down the hall. Maybe there was nobody here with him at all. Then he could go back to rocking and praying.

He opened his eyes.

Any other time, the sight of a stranger standing so close, _looking at him_, would have sent him into a panic. But before he could open his mouth to scream or convince his jelly-legs to get up and run, the stranger spoke to him.

"It's some spectacular weather," he observed, "isn't it?"

Djubai was shocked. Usually when people bothered to look at him long enough to decide they wanted to say something to him, it contained a lot more obscenities. But here was a stranger who spoke to him in a polite, calm, even voice without angrysounds or impatience—and then! A stranger who smiled at him. Not a smile of pity or the smile he got from strangers offering charity in remorse and retribution for some past sin. The smile put him at ease, told him he was not doing anything wrong. He let himself relax a little, and considered the question.

"Yes," he decided finally. "It would be a spectacle if I were watching it."

The stranger's smile widened a little. He twirled the cane he held in one hand, spinning the knob this way then that and making it nudge-roll across the tiled floor in tiny distances that doubled back on themselves and ended up never going anywhere at all.

Another roar of thunder made Djubai jump and interrupted the spinning. He frowned.

"When will it be over?" he half-wailed.

"The walls are big," the stranger pointed out. "It takes a long time for anything that big to move, even when it's falling."

Djubai replied with a soft keening whine, and then said, "I don't know where I'm going to go after the whole city falls."

The stranger gave a sympathetic sigh and slid onto the bench, not quite on the opposite end from Djubai. This was something else new: nobody ever sat by him. But the stranger had been so nice…

"What if I told you," he was saying, "that I could solve your problem for you in return for a little favor?"

Djubai's eyes widened. "You can show me the way to a new place to live?" That sounded like a good deal to him. If someone knew a place he could go, and would talk to him long enough to tell him how to get there, it was worth a FEW favors.

But the stranger laughed—a rich, warm chuckle—and shook his head. "I can make the city not fall down."

Djubai gasped. "But—how?" he stammered.

The stranger lifted one hand from his cane and gave a careless wave. "It doesn't matter. But you have to agree to this little favor first. Oh, it's a pithy thing, barely of any import whatsoever. I would send someone else with it but…" And again, that smile. "You're _handy_."

"Anything," Djubai said. "I'll do anything if you'll keep the walls up." He paused as a thought hit him. "Will they stay up?"

"The clouds won't be able to bring them down," the stranger answered, leaning back against the wall with one leg stretched out and balanced on the heel.

That would have to suffice. The safety of the Imperial City was worth a small dose of inconvenience. Djubai realized it might mean giving up time he would otherwise spend realizing things, but the stranger had been so kind, and he had such a wonderfully soothing and assuring voice. Assuring and alluring even. It made Djubai _want_ to do things for him. With him. He felt as if this man was a very good friend he just happened not to have known long. "What can I do?"

"It's the smallest, silliest thing, really," the stranger nearly giggled. "I have a little trinket, a lost little trinket, that I found sitting all alone in the well, so sad and crying that nobody loved it. I want you to take it home for me. I'm very sure its master misses it very much." As he spoke, the stranger drew out of a pocket something small and round and black and furry. He dropped it into Djubai's waiting hands. "You see how small and defenseless the poor thing is?" he asked, staring at it with an almost heartbroken expression. "It told me it was called Malkin, but I couldn't get it to say where it lived, so I'm afraid you'll have to find out on your own."

"How?" Djubai asked, eager to help but not certain the unremarkable little object would tell him anything, or let him realize anything about it. Unremarkable—save for a faint shine he thought he could almost catch on it at just the right angle, never long enough to be certain he had seen it.

"Oh, just ask around the Elven Gardens District. That's where I found it. Someone's sure to have seen it."

"I'll do my best," Djubai said solemnly, and tucked the thing into his deepest pocket.

"I know you'll do just fine," the stranger said, suddenly sweeping himself to his feet. "I had better be off and see to those walls. Wait here a while. It shouldn't take too long. They'll be right as rain by the time the storm passes." He gave the Redguard a beaming grin and turned to go.

"Wait!" Djubai called. "What's your name so I can tell the owner who sent me?"

The stranger paused mid-step, tossed his yellow hair and glanced over his shoulder. "I am Sheogorath," he answered. "But no need to mention little me. I'm just happy to do a favor for someone in need." He pressed his hand to his heart, nodded a wordless farewell, and spun around into a lightfooted promenade down the hallway, quickly disappearing around the bend. Djubai listened to the step-step-tap of his feet and cane fade into the familiar, comforting stone stillness. He heard again a rumble through the walls. Still quite loud. It couldn't be easy for _anyone_ to rebuild and brace every wall in the Imperial City. Djubai considered using the time to realize things, but it would be awkward with the guards so close by in a place so public. He'd need to save his energy for searching. Therefore, his options weighed, Djubai stretched out on the bench and closed his eyes, hoping that despite his uncomfortably soaked clothing, he might manage a little sleep.

* * *

**IV.**  
Djubai made his way down the Elven Gardens District main street with such a jaunt in his step he was almost skipping. A few hours ago, he had been fleeing for his life, huddling in dripping terror on a nondescript bench in a nondescript hallway with visions of the ruined city scrolling before his very eyes. He had been a little doubtful when the stranger (no—his _friend_) left him with an unproven claim and a Malkin (whatever that was—Djubai had his doubts about that, too), but they had been banished as soon as he awoke to an encouraging silence and stepped outside to see the city transformed. The walls were all gleaming, their sheen almost blinding as the early afternoon sun shone down on them through clear skies. He had never seen the city look so white, so clean, so… _sturdy_. It surpassed even his most optimistic hopes. He only marveled that no one else seemed as stunned as he at the miracle. Ah, but perhaps it was that they were all so relieved to be out of danger and able to go on with their lives, they didn't have time to admire the workmanship. Sometimes things like that can escape one's notice and seem trivial after such a close brush with death. Yes, that must be it. 

As delightful as it would have been to find a sunny, secluded spot and do some intense realizing of things, Djubai realized first and foremost that he had a more important job to do, for the sake of the city and for the sake of his helpless cargo. He felt a rush of deliciously secret pride, knowing that he alone could repay the great deed that had been done—and that, too, done in secret. Djubai felt like a King as he processed down the sparkling, sunlit stones, looking at all the houses and shops throwing open their shutters and doors, the people coming out and dumping buckets of leak water (or dodging bucket-emptying citizens and gutters above, cursing both with equal fervor when they couldn't step out of the way in time). He watched the aproned mothers sweeping puddles off the walk while their children stomped and tromped and splashed in others. He observed the bliss and bustle of the every-day tasks people strove to carry out, some with griping, others just grateful for the opportunity to work. He felt a new sense of appreciation for it all, and yet… ever that sense of being insurmountably separated from it. Once, it made him feel lonely and lost, but now, he knew more than ever that he had been given this special gift for a reason. And now, he was not just running an errand for a generous stranger after a chance meeting—he was living his _destiny_.

It was this very sense of purpose-driven importance that gave him the courage to do what he had not done in many years: to approach a stranger on the street with his head held high, to speak with an untangled tongue, and to know that he had a right to be where he was, doing what he was doing.

He took a little more time to admire the sights and the day and the people, and then sought out his very first subject to interview. Because it felt like such a momentous occasion, he allowed himself to linger and be picky, until he found _just_ the right one. One he would remember fondly as long as he lived. Not a woman—that would seem too forward, and he would feel obligated to tell her that no matter how special she would always be to him, they could never be together. A man, then. Ah—a Breton! Somewhat portly, with a kind, honest face, setting up an outdoor display in front of his shop which he had been obligated to take down despite the awning over his door. Djubai approached bravely, and called to him in a voice full of self-assurance. "Good day, friend!"

The shopkeeper turned to him and gave a friendly smile. "Good day, though a wet one!" he answered.

Djubai could feel in their exchanged smiles the sense of unspoken kinship: _It was bad for a while, there, but we got through it. Now it's time to move on. Try to live a normal life despite the fear we all discovered. I can do it if you can… brother._ He could have flown like a bird on the high it gave him. But he continued nonchalantly. "Wonder if you could spare a minute?"

"Sure. What can I do for you?" The Breton hoisted his unarranged wares onto a clear corner of the table in order to give his full attention to the matter. It was such a simple gesture, yet Djubai felt overjoyed to be thought of as worthy of it.

"I've come into possession of an item that was lost in a well near here not long ago. I wonder if you recognize it?" Djubai pulled the Malkin out and held it in his flat palm.

The Breton leaned closer for a better look, scratched his head, but shrugged. "Can't say I've ever seen or heard of such a thing. Why don't you take it to a guard post? They'll have it if the owner comes in missing it."

"Ah," Djubai began, apologetic that he could not take such a well-thought-out suggestion, "I am afraid I made my friend who found it a promise that I would see it personally returned to the hands of its rightful owner. Besides, my friend tells me that it is an item of some importance, and you know guards." He winked.

"Aye," chuckled the Breton. "I do. Well, then, you might try Addie's General Merchandise down the way there." He pointed. "She's got the usual assortment, same as me, but most of her good trade is in specialty items. She might know what it is or who in the District might have occasion to own such a thing. And if that fails, ask 'round the streets if anyone's seen Old Sue, the Argonian. She spends a lot of time by the well. She might have seen something."

Djubai beamed. "My most sincere thanks," he said, and made the merchant a deep bow.

"No trouble at all," the Breton assured him, returning to his wares. "Good day, and good luck."

"And a good day to you!"

So elated was Djubai by the smoothness of the encounter, it didn't even occur to him to be discouraged by a dead end. It was only his first try. He was actually looking forward to more now.

He made his way directly in the direction he had been pointed, stopping once to ask a gentleman on a ladder about the Argonian. He received another negative, but left the baffled handyman wondering if that was what he'd _wanted_ to hear, so overjoyed was he by the answer.

In a few short minutes, Djubai was treated to another sound he hadn't heard in what seemed like a lifetime: the clear, crisp dingle of a shop door bell announcing his arrival. He couldn't have asked for a better note of introduction from all the trumpets of the Emperor's own entourage—nor a sweeter greeting than the one that followed.

"Hey there!" So simple, so open, could such an exquisite melody really be played from nothing more than a woman's lips? "Can I help you?"

"You must be Addie." Djubai approached the counter. "A merchant down the road pointed me your way. I have a question—a lost item I'm trying to see back to its owner. It almost certainly belongs to a resident of this District. I wonder if you might recognize it?" Again, the item was located and displayed.

But while the Breton had merely given it a glance, fair-skinned Redguard Addie seemed instantly entranced by it. "I've never seen anything like it," she said in a voice filled with wonder. "Which is to say I'm not certain what it is, but I might know…"

"Its name," Djubai declared, "is Malkin."

"Oh, that's sweet!" Addie cooed. "Well it didn't come from my store, but I'll tell you what. If you have no luck, I'd be happy to ask my suppliers about it, see if they know anything. Where do you live so I can send word?"

Djubai's straight stance sunk a little bit. The glory of being a hero would surely be soured by the truth. "I sleep wherever I can, but I have no permanent address," he admitted, preparing himself for the inevitable ejection from the premises.

But Addie only looked shocked, then drew herself up with an air of determination. "Well! You know what, I just happen to have a spare room. With business like it is, I've had no need to rent it out. You're welcome to stay until you find what you're looking for—and I warn you, I don't take no for an answer without a fight!"

Djubai could scarcely believe his ears. "You don't mean that," he challenged her.

"You'd better believe I do!" the strong-willed woman answered. She dove into a pocket and pulled out a key, which she forced into Djubai's hand. "It's just a little place in the cellar. You can get to it using that key from the back and not even have to go through the shop. It's small, but it's clean, comfortable, and private."

"I… I guess I can't say no," Djubai stammered.

"Good!" Addie looked as if she wanted to dance. "Then I'll have it ready for you by this evening. It just needs a little dusting. By the way, I serve dinner at my place at seven, if you're interested."

A free room AND a free meal. Djubai couldn't believe his luck. "I'll be there," he promised her. "But first—I have a few other leads to check out." He was starting to feel like a real… important… _person_.

"Great. I make the best scalloped potatoes in Cyrodiil."

"I don't doubt it," Djubai said sincerely.

As he walked out of the store, half in a daze, he began to think: this much luck and courtesy from all these strangers, who yesterday would have spit in his face sooner than give him the time of day, couldn't be just a coincidence. Could it be that somehow, people _knew_ about the rebuilding of the now-strengthened walls, and his part in it? How he had saved the city with his prayers, and was now on a holy mission in good faith that men are loyal to those who keep their word? For truth, for honor, for the safety of the Imperial City and all her people, may they ever prosper!

By the time he spoke to two more strangers (no—_friends_) and tracked down the Argonian, he half believed it himself. This would have to be the big test. Old Sue was a street-dweller like himself, and a sugartooth. She'd picked up the habit, he was told, from a detour through young love—a handsome, strong Khajiit who convinced her to invest herself in his endeavors, heart, mind, and purse, then left her with nothing but a box of costume jewelry and a taste for moon-sweets which she had never been able to get over. She wore her false sparkles over her rags and was a self-proclaimed noble among beggars who was more than willing to enforce the use of her title.

The trouble was, while a regular upstanding citizen can walk past a beggar every day for ten years and not be able to describe his face, or even say for certain what race he is if he isn't an orc, but the homeless know each other. They know their territories and keep to them, they know their ranks and rights between themselves, they know where they stand. It was a loose structure, to say the least, but it worked because nothing else did. You don't give up a prime spot to a higher-up, and they can't force you, you regret it next time you need a favor, or maybe your day's gold goes missing over night, or your favorite sleeping spot gets suddenly infested with biting beetles. The point is, they kept each other in line.

And as lines go, Djubai was near the back. Oh, no, he wasn't the lowest of the low, but he'd never tried for better either. So he kept a little respect (or was it pity?) and thus goodwill among his fellows, but they owed him nothing and likely wouldn't have volunteered the few favors they did if he had asked for them. Which meant that Old Sue was likely to laugh him out of her immediate District, ostracize him out of his own, and maybe, if she was in a particularly foul mood, have him bullied all the way to the Waterfront. As little as he minded about his situation most of the time, he didn't think he could stand that.

Still, his luck today had been good, and what if they really DID know him as the hero he was? With that in mind, to Old Sue he went.

He found her lounging in a pocket of shrubbery and tall grass that fit her body like a throne. He realized that if she were to get up, there would probably be a patch of brown shaped like her behind in the grass. The theory went a long way towards explaining why she never seemed to move while anyone was looking, and kept her spots jealously and violently guarded from trespassers.

She regarded him with cold, haughty eyes. Her fake gems clinked and clanked like a ghost's chains when she shifted. "Yeeeees?" she prompted, giving every impression of being bored to the point of armed rebellion with this meeting.

"A moment, Lady, I beg," Djubai pleaded. "One question only. I was told to seek you."

She appeared to consider him and his request. As the moments ticked on, Djubai's brow began to prickle with sweat.

"Djuuuubai," she said at last. "I know of you. Knower of hidden things." She spoke down to him like an empress, but he thought her lips were almost twisted into a smirk. And she knew him. Knew about his acquired knowledge. How could she, but that she knew about the walls? "You may speak," she told him with her molasses tongue. "Quickly."

Djubai lowered himself to one knee before her—both as a sign of respect he had heard about somewhere, and in order to be able to speak with her directly.

"This," he said, holding up the trinket, "is Malkin. A lost object of some importance, which I am trusted to return. Please, Lady, if you know what it is, or where I might find its owner, I beg you tell me."

Old Sue craned out her leathery neck, blinked her marble eyes, and licked her lips.

"It is," she croaked, "a brave thing you do."

Djubai held his breath.

"Yes, I will tell you. I do know that the one you seek is nearby. Her name is…" Old Sue paused. Djubai wondered if she was trying to make him pass out from lack of air. He would have eager believed that to be the malicious old tyrant's intent, save that in her old lizard's eyes, he thought he could see a trace of something… else. Something… hungry. She wasn't keeping him on pins and needles in order to revel in his agony. She was keeping him in her company because, somehow, she sincerely wanted him there.

There was still, however, the matter of asphyxiation to consider. When weighed against the prospect of breaking protocol, it was by far the preferable option. Luckily, just as he began to see stars before his eyes, Old Sue continued.

"Aria," she at last divulged in her slow slur. "You will find her in this District, though I do not know where." And strangely, Djubai felt that she was telling the truth, not just holding back. "But she should not be hard to find. She is here often, near the well I see her. She must live close, for she often comes late in the evening. Unless she does not fear the darkness of the streets, she is only a short walk from here. To the West of where we are now."

Djubai let out his breath in a sigh and savored the new air when it entered his lungs. "Thank you, Lady."

She nodded once to him. "You may go," she said with a dismissive gesture. "And Djubai," she added as he stood. "It is an… honorable deed. I will grant you free passage in my city. Farewell."

That farewell meant that any answer he gave would not be heard, so he left without a word, his head swimming from more than just holding his breath for too long. Free passage meant that he could sleep, beg, and stash stolen goods in any District he so pleased—not just his own territory. He was still at the mercy of more important beggars laying claim to the best spots, but they could no longer drive him out of their District entirely.

That proved it: He didn't know how, but _somehow_ people had learned of what happened. That made him a genuine hero. No more getting garbage thrown in his face when he didn't move out of people's sight fast enough! No more bathing in the drainage ditch, or hearing guards laugh at him when he walked by, or being asked if he had spoken to the stars last night. Heroes are not people to be mocked!

If there existed the slightest possibility for his chin to be held higher, for his back to stand straighter, or for his stride to be longer and more certain, that possibility exerted itself with all its might as he moved towards the line of houses to the West in a show of self-made strength that said—_I cause the planet to spin with the whims of my feet!_

And by the time the sun was sinking over the rooftops, he had stopped at two more houses for directions and second opinions on Old Sue's accusation of ownership, and received two hand-drawn maps, a set of fine linen clothing that had just been "lying around extra," an invitation to a weekend hunt (horse to be provided), a sack of handmade sweetrolls (he'd give them to Addie for breakfast, to thank her for the room), and a proposition he hadn't fully understood but hadn't felt he could turn down without seeming rude.

Djubai decided that he could really get used to this hero stuff.

At last, as the city was set afire by twilight and a distant guard's bell tolled 6:00, he knocked at the door of Aria Ocatus. It was answered promptly by a young Imperial woman not quite twenty years of age, with rosy cheeks and hair the color of the richest brown oak bark, her eyes a deep gleaming green. "Can I help you?" she asked, making the polite inquiry sound as if nothing would please her more than to be given the opportunity to do so.

"My name is Djubai," he answered with a bow. "I have a trinket I am told is yours."

"Oh?" Aria said, puckering her lips into an almost perfect circle. "I don't remember losing anything…"

Djubai took the trinket from his new linen pocket and presented it with a flourish. "Your Malkin, I believe."

"Oh!" Aria gasped, plucking the item delicately from his hand. "I hadn't even realized it was missing! Why, what a kind thing for you to do for a stranger! How ever did you manage to find me? I hope it didn't take up too much of your time? Oh, please do come in, let me pour you a drink, are you hungry?" The girl bustled her guest indoors. He politely declined her offer of food, saying he was joining a friend in an hour, but accepted the wine she pressed into his hand, and the chair she waved him into. He related to her briefly his adventures of the day, leaving out his yellow-haired friend's role and the miraculous rescue of the city from annihilation. He listened to her chatter on as he sipped the sharp red brew. Her vocal chords seemed tireless, but there was a pleasant sort of rhythm to her speech, a recurring pattern of tone and volume shifts that repeated frequently enough to be noticeable and, therefore, enjoyable. He even found the nerve to reply to statements she made other than direct questions. He could, he decided, because he was a Hero, and Heroes do that sort of thing. His attempts at parroting her idle chatter earned him some of the most joyous-sounding laughter he had ever heard.

By the time his glass was emptied, he'd been offered a job working for her father. Her father was a banker, she explained, and he needed someone to assist him with the bookkeeping—checking sums, looking for errors, making certain everything _worked_. "You'd be so good at it," she declared, giggling. "You notice so many funny little details!"

Djubai departed from the girl's company with her heartfelt thanks. He realized on the way to Addie's that he never had asked her what that thing was, or why it had any particular value. But in the end, he supposed, it didn't really matter much. It had brought him more luck than he could have asked for in a whole lifetime. And now—he might even have a job. Maybe soon he could afford something better than a pile of rags under a shrub, and with his own money, too! He'd have to tell Addie he couldn't keep living off of her generosity, but maybe he'd ask her if she'd let him put off his first payment for rent until he got his pay, if he got the job.

He arrived at the door precisely at 7:00 and knocked. The door opened and spilled its inner light into the dusky street, but brighter still was Addie's smile. He handed her the sweetrolls, and she asked him inside, enquiring about his search and the new clothes he wore. He told her about shows of gratefulness, about the generosity of people, and told her he might be getting a job. She agreed to let him pay for his room if he did, but refused to charge him full for it, claiming it would be nothing short of robbery to charge that much for a spruced-up closet.

* * *

**Epilogue**  
Sheogorath didn't have to be able to see the future in order to know the probable path of events: a happy ending for all. Djubai would end up employed and stable, if not sane. And perhaps he'd even hook up with that Addie and be looked after there. He had to congratulate himself on that little trick. And he had been right about the Imperial City being just the thing to cheer him up. There would always be something uniquely fulfilling about watching the world work with the devices of a madman. The specially tailored charm spell—which was effective only when Djubai showed off the item he had stuck it to—would eventually fade, but what it had allowed people to see in him would not. That was real. He had only had to show them how to open their eyes to it once, and it became a habit. 

And lo, the mad man became the master, and his servants were the sane.

The following morning, on the way to Aria's father's office, Djubai thought he spotted his golden-haired friend, but when he tried to follow the fleeting face, it was gone into the morning bustle. Gone, and soon forgotten when the merchant he had met the day before approached with a hearty good-morning.

Sheogorath smiled to himself, watching from a nearby alleyway entrance.

It was, he thought, a most satisfactory conclusion.

He turned to make his way in the opposite direction, humming quietly to himself and admiring the blue morning sky, which even now was growing heavy with the promise of an impending summer storm.


End file.
